


Let Me Go First

by illyriantremors



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Implied Smut, Not Canon Compliant, my lovesssssssssss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyriantremors/pseuds/illyriantremors
Summary: Nestled deep into the mountains of the Night Court, Mor finds herself in the rare and happy position of waking up before Azriel. She takes advantage of the opportunity to enjoy deciding how best to wake him up. Fluffy, non-explicit smut and feels ensue.





	Let Me Go First

**Author's Note:**

> You can pry this ship from my cold, dead, bleeding hands.

When Mor wakes up in the tiny cabin tucked deeply away in the mountains of Night Court’s farthest realms, there is sunlight flooding the room. Bright, vibrant beams pour in through the large frame of a window that encompasses nearly the entire wall to one side. Her eyes flutter open after a brief squint at the intensity of light surrounding her and then… she sighs. For it is beautiful.

Not just the light swimming around her like crystals sent from angels made by the Mother herself. But everything. Being here in this room. The snow barricading her inside. The warmth folded around her toes snugly tucked beneath the wool blanket she’s wrapped in.

And him.

He is perfect and beautifully made. And he is all hers today.

Mor’s head falls to one side, a dopey bemused smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t dare touch him. If she does, he’ll wake. Years and years and  _ centuries _ of instincts and sadistic training have done that to him and it’s a hard habit to break now.

But here, in these mountains removed even from his Illyrian birth, Mor stands a real chance of relaxing him. For once. She supposes he is hers well and truly every day, but in reality, he is not. Az is always too conflicted inside to give all of himself up. She sees it in his eyes and in his soul - the demons, the torture, all of it chasing at him each and every moment of the day until she can give him that sweet blissful release he only ever seems to discover in her.

Slowly - quietly - her fingers curl into a tight grip against the sheets. They itch to touch him desperately. Spread out next to her, Az’s head has come to rest on the planes of her stomach, one arm stretched across her. And his wings sit atop them both, neither fully extended nor constricted. They simply exist in harmony with the exterior world for once.

Her toes curl and she can’t resist much longer. He looks so peaceful. So perfect. But which part of him to coax into life first?

His hair is always her first thought. With the way it falls smoothly over his face in faint waves. It is not so long as Cassian’s that it disguises him, hides him away from her. He has shadows for that purpose. Rather, it simply presses gently against his skin just enough to dare her brush it back so she can caress his face.

His face - it’s perfect. She will never stop her cliched musings of how beautiful he is. Her fingers lift and almost reach his chin before pausing. No - she can’t end her torture so soon. Not when he’s given her this sweet moment, being the first to wake and watch over him for a change instead of always the other way around.

But her fingers don’t retract. Rather, they hover in the air and ghost over a trail she has taken many, many times over and will continue to take for the rest of her life. Across the sharp edges of his cheeks. Up the careful bridge of his nose. And over the strong brows that lid the hazel pools she longs to see when he leaves for weeks on end. A single freckle dots the deep, brown skin at the crease of his left eye. She has kissed the hidden spot endlessly before, and smiles at the thought of how such a small act brings such amusement to her Shadowsinger’s face.

Shadowsinger.

Not today, Mor thinks with gleeful menace pushing her whispering touch over Az’s neck where faint scars from only the most careful weapons have ever managed to strike. His shadows are calm this morning as they only ever are when she brings him here, so far removed from the rest of the world they both feel equally safe. Only the tops of his shoulders are visible beneath the wings that have always stood the greatest temptation to her touch. But even so, she sees the muscle and strains for the flex it gives when he works her - holding her, carrying her, moving against her,  _ with _ her.

A memory of just such a moment from last night flashes through her mind and her hand almost falters from the sharp need inside her that it brings, falling atop his own. His is wrapped warmly around her waist, full of calluses and scars and suffering that she washes away whenever she holds it. He didn’t want her touching him like that for a long, long time after they met. It was almost too intimate, more so than even their closest physical acts. And then the war came, and Az seemed to decide that if he was going to go out, he would go out knowing he’d left his Morrigan every piece of himself behind. His hands were her bed, her fortress, her solitude that night. And many nights more.

Her gaze reaches out to the wings that cocoon them to their sanctuary for the week and suddenly, a knowing flicker of movement catches her eye. A long wisp of smoke is curling, dancing up the spine of his back as though racing toward that hand of hers and what it might do.

Mor arches a single brow.

_ Shall we then? _

Still ghosting over his skin, never quite acquiescing, Mor’s hand moves carefully over the membrane. Azriel’s lone shadow follows in a close pattern monitoring her actions - and daring her onward.

She bites her lip and scans, looking for a spot to stake her territory knowing full well what that little wisp of dust might do to her if she chooses wrong.

And what Azriel will do to her if she choose right.

The colors guide her - deep browns and reds that forge a path with a starlit trail of glittering gold in between. Over the veins, the muscles, the colors flow seamlessly together creating the patchwork of heaven she’s come to call home. There are valleys and mountains, caves and oceans - an entire world to explore in just this one perfect place that has sheltered her from storms and flown her to soaring heights and beyond.

Reaching down as far as she can, the shadow pauses as though knowing this is  _ the _ moment. It dips and disappears into her lover’s skin, splashing with a curl of smoke as it goes. Morrigan dives headfirst after it.

Her fingertips press against those tattoos that swirl between his wings and with a delicious purr that erupts inside her heart ready to make melody with this man she loves, they glide up, up, up the muscles racing for the summit at the base of his neck… and fall carefully back down taking membrane and color and feeling with them.

Azriel’s eyes flash open immediately, but the shadows do not engulf her. They know her touch. As does he.

At first, it is a predator’s eyes that snap and lock with hers, until that devilish, knowing grin of his marks her as prey and her stomach floods with - what? Desire? Love? Adrenaline? It is everything and all too consuming at once for Mor to sort through in time. Azriel’s hands dart out pinning her own against the pillows. His solid form comes over her… ghosting. Just as she had.

Mor’s nose crinkles. Filthy, teasing spymaster with his torturous ways. Doesn’t he know the pain she longs for him to inflict upon her? Her torso shifts up, then her hips, and when those fail to reach him she tries her legs and whines with the failure it brings. Tries with every part of her to reach him, but to no end. He smirks, watching her with amusement. It takes so little effort and he knows it.

“I was wondering when you would dare,” he whispers. His voice is like velvet - deep and dark as a midnight promise for her soul.

So he knew then. Had perhaps even chosen that precise position just to torment her come morning. Mor’s eyes tighten into a playful glare and she means to chastise him when his voice pins her once more.

“Morrigan,” he whispers. It is hushed. It is caressed. And it is reverent.

Only her name spoken from the lips of the Mother’s darkest angel sent to save her. It brings the entire world crashing to a vicious halt outside of herself, but inside - Mor is screaming. Her blood races and her heart soars. The way his eyes soften watching her, nothing more than utter devotion pouring from their depths, her bones cry for him. She is his.  _ Always his _ .

Az leans his head forward, ghosts his nose along her neck which breaks out in shivers as his breath tickles her just below the ear.  _ “My love - my Morrigan.” _

There’s a strain in his voice that makes her want to cry. Makes her bones want to jump out of her skin and etch his words across them until her soul is written entirely out of their love.

_ Touch me _ , she begs silently, allowing the way her body breathes and struggles and catches fire to submit the request for her.  _ Touch me, touch me - please _ .

“Azriel,” she says, and does not realize until that moment when she hears the crack in her own voice how pained her face had become searching him out.

He pulls his head back. The light of the room halos around his face in an iridescent glow. And Azriel smiles pure and unrestrained.

Their noses come to a touch. “There’s my lady,” he says and his lips seal over hers, hands breaking free to hold her chin closely to him. Mor’s body sings at the newfound freedom. Her arms and legs wrap instinctively around his body at long last like a snake, hugging him to her as tightly as she can go. And finally - finally, finally,  _ finally _ \- she weaves her fingers into that blanket of dark, inky hair she so first wanted to stroke, gripping full tendrils in her hands until they are fists urging the battle between their bodies on.

Azriel groans and that’s it - it’s over before it really even begins it feels like.

His hands grip her waist.

Her hips tilt up.

They meet.

They move.

They moan and they cry and they make.

And they love.

Fast and ardent, taking each other in ways they don’t usually indulge, but that are oh so perfectly sweet unto their souls. Mor’s body is wild and electric under Az’s every touch. And Az is firm and smooth, her anchor in the storm between them. Together they press on and reach for one another, over and over until finally with a gasp of thunder and an ecstacy of lightning… the storm breaks. And sweet, unrelenting sunlight floods through leaving their bodies in perfect pleasure.

Azriel rests between Mor’s breasts. This time, the shadows don’t hesitate to touch her as they join the dance she strokes through his hair. Against the sweat-slick skin of her chest, Azriel looks up and takes her hand to press a careful, measured kiss against the inside of her wrist. He runs his thumb over the mark sweetly once he’s done and looks up at her.

“I love you, Morrigan,” he says. It is quiet, yet bold. Certain. And it warms Mor’s heart to the core.

“And I you,” she replies. “ _ Azriel. _ ”

Together, they go on to love and love again.


End file.
